


Fifteen Twenty

by darlingdontbeafraid



Category: Supernatural
Genre: 15x20, Episode AU: s15e20 Carry On, Episode Fix-It: s15e20 Carry On, F/M, M/M, The Empty (Supernatural), and castiel deserves the world, and sam deserves better, because that was a mess, castiel waits for dean, dean has depth perception, i can't believe they gave everyone a crumb of hope through bad rep then snatched it away, this is a fix it for the finale
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-11-20
Updated: 2020-11-20
Packaged: 2021-03-09 17:48:25
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,283
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27640247
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/darlingdontbeafraid/pseuds/darlingdontbeafraid
Summary: “You know,” Dean whispers, “I asked Jack to bring you back to me.”
Relationships: Castiel/Dean Winchester, Eileen Leahy/Sam Winchester
Kudos: 23





	Fifteen Twenty

**Author's Note:**

> Okay listen. We all know the ending of Supernatural was a god awful trainwreck and I am very sorry I even spent time watching it. 
> 
> I was never invested in spn. This is a love letter to destiel fans that got screwed over tonight. I felt like I had to try and fix it because that was a slap in the face for everyone on all fronts.

“We should put a bar here,” Castiel says, staring straight ahead at the empty patch of grass. “He would like that.”

“He would, wouldn’t he?” Bobby says, hands in his pockets. “Sam wouldn’t mind it either.”

“And somewhere with pie. A bakery.”

Bobby nods. 

Castiel closes his eyes for a moment. He can hear the wood shifting, smells the warm dust of the timber a he brings it into being and then into place. The lights inside are dim, vinyl seats slightly tacky, loud classic rock and an old fashioned jukebox in a tucked away corner. He hopes Dean will like it. 

The bakery is farther away. A perfect driving distance, enough to listen to a few Led Zepplin tracks and get back in time for the pie to have cooled to the correct temperature best for consumption. The bakery will only have pie, on that he is decided. 

Bobby spins to look at him. Castiel tilts his head slightly, waiting. 

“How did you get out of the Empty?”

“Some things are unknowable, even to me.” He did not pay penance, did not pray. It is not a miracle, he is sure, no other angel would grant him that. He prefers to think it was Jack. Yet everything after _goodbye Dean_ and the gentle rasp of well-worn fabric under his palm is fuzzy. 

Bobby hums. 

“How long will it take him to get here?”

Bobby plops down into a lawn chair on the bar’s porch. Castiel did not put it there and it seems he is not the only one who can mold this world. “Dunno, Cas. I guess you’ll just have to be patient.”

\---

When the sun rises each day, Castiel waits next to the Impala. He waits so long his legs tire and he must sit. He watches the clouds, always soft and white, scuttling across the sky. Sometimes he imagines they appear as animals or household objects. A dog. A fork. A fluffy white blob that could be a bee, if he squints. Other days he just lets the sun color the sky in brilliant pinks and purples and that funny yellow color that makes the border between blue and orange. Twilight takes over this new land, eats up the horizon. When the sun has fully set Castiel wanders. There is a copse of trees in the distance, to which he walks each night. Twigs snap under his shoes, brush his coat, snag in his hair. 

Each morning he carefully picks twigs and leaves out of his hair. Smooths his coat, ties his shoe. Stands in his spot by the Impala. 

\---

An insect lands on his nose one day while he is listening to cicadas whine in the weeds. He allows it to crawl around, crossing his eyes to see it as well as possible. It tickles and the urge to wipe it away is strong. He does not. 

Castiel’s life is a series of decisions. He does not regret many of them. 

\---

The Impala has been sitting so long the tires are beginning to sink into the earth. Castiel touches the rubber and they are brand new, stinking of rubber and covered in tiny fillanges meant to grip the road. The gas in the tank goes bad. He replaces it with care, waving a hand over the place where he has seen Dean point at while fiddling around underneath its belly. 

\---

The grass is soft against his back. He gets up and removes his coat the human way, thinking of the thousands of times Dean has made these same oh-so-human motions. Bobby snores, quite loudly, in his chair from a distance. Castiel is not happy, but there is a pleasant blandness here. He could spend the rest of time peaceably enough here, watching swallows dive for the insects drawn in by the pond on the left side of the bar. 

\---

There are other loved ones here. The term, though accurate, stings and Castiel tries not to use it. After all, he doesn’t know for sure. Jo sits with him, on occasion, as does Mary. 

He does not approve of John being here at all, but he has little say over who is allowed to enter. He did not create this place, though he can change aspects of it if he so chooses. Bobby agrees with him, that much is plain. He rarely speaks to John, and lets the anger seep into his voice on the rare occasions he does. 

Castiel simply avoids John. He feels no shame in disappearing when John enters the little grocery store Bobby insisted on for a “reminder of life outside”. Castiel does not like it in there anyway; the lights are an overbright assault and the plethora of garish objects to look at is overwhelming. Staring at the Impala all day is starting to bore him, but this place is worse. Though, he supposes, as he strolls through an aisle at the direct opposite end of the building as John Winchester, everything all at once is better than the Empty. 

He does not regret the choice that put him there either. 

\---

Castiel is swallowed up. Thick black goo plugs his nostrils, his ears, his eyes, deafening everything in an instant. He was happy to admit what had been in his heart the whole time. This was his reward, his final act. 

Another angel is standing in front of him, in the deep purple-black, staring. He does not recognize them. They are a ball of light and color and eyes and feathers, shifting and blinking and whispering things he doesn’t comprehend. He should be asleep. This angel should not be awake. He is supposed to be dead. 

“Castiel,” they say, “you were never wrong in this, you know. Our brethren have done you a disservice.” 

Castiel can count many more than _one_ disservice, but he thinks this might be an apology. He waits for the unknown angel to continue. 

“We have been incorrect. I apologize, though the others never will. You did not deserve what became of you in life.”

He has a very strong urge to roll his eyes but instinct tells him this angel would not appreciate that. Instead he nods and wakes up with a gasp in the Impala’s back seat. He reaches for his jugular, feels the blood beating hard. 

\---

“Cas, why don’t you come inside and sit a spell? You’re wearing a hole in the grass.”

Castiel looks down from where he has been standing. So he is. He waves a hand at Bobby and sweeps his foot over the yellowing grass, restoring his place of vigil. 

\---

The air changes when Dean finally arrives. The birds sing louder, the sun gets brighter, the wind blows a cool breeze across his face and though his coat. Dean is talking to Bobby out front, hands in his pockets. He looks so much younger than he did the last time Castiel saw him. The lines around his eyes are gone. He looks… lighter. Softer. He smiles wider, laughs and slings an affectionate arm around Bobby. Dean did not appear in the place Castiel expected and suddenly even seeing him here, golden in the fading light, is too much. He retreats around the back of the bar. The stairs creak and groan as he climbs them. The room he has given himself is thick with dust and the stench of disuse. How long has it been? How long has he waited?

The bed is comfortable enough, lined with plain sheets and two pillows at the head. 

Soon enough the Impala roars to life outside. Dean hops in and takes off, tires kicking up a spray of gravel, not noticing Castiel in the room’s window.


End file.
